


The Sorcerer's Ghost (The Champion Remix)

by avanti_90



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bodyswap, Crack, Gen, Magic, Mirrors, Remix, Reverse Remix, Time Period: Reign of Ezar Vorbarra, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 00:57:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avanti_90/pseuds/avanti_90
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One evening after Escobar, magical intervention forces Lord Vorkosigan and Princess Kareen to reconsider some of their opinions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sorcerer's Ghost (The Champion Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Philomytha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philomytha/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Reflections](https://archiveofourown.org/works/521450) by [Philomytha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philomytha/pseuds/Philomytha). 
  * Inspired by [Champion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/627767) by [Philomytha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philomytha/pseuds/Philomytha). 



“I will never accept the position of Regent,” Lord Vorkosigan told her, his voice almost a growl. "Never. I have finished my service to the Imperium now, and there is nothing more that I can do."

Kareen kept her expression steady, swallowing her anger and disgust as she turned from Lord Vorkosigan. Vorkosigan was of no use. He didn’t seem to care that the capital was collapsing around Ezar’s dying body, that without a strong successor Gregor’s reign would be swallowed up in chaos before it even began. If Ezar had truly wanted Vorkosigan as Regent, she could only conclude that his illness had taken his wits along with his color.

One hour into Serg’s funeral reception, and already Vorkosigan was drunk. Padma and Alys had been hovering around him all evening, and Commander Illyan was acting like Vorkosigan’s second shadow. What sort of Regent couldn’t be trusted to go out in public without babysitters? Very well, she thought, Vorkosigan could retreat to his District and lose himself in selfishness and drunken ignorance. She had a duty.

She would have to look elsewhere for a protector for Gregor. There was only one alternative, and he had already made his intentions clear; _he_ would not walk away as Vorkosigan had.

Kareen made her way across the Hall of Mirrors to greet Count Vordarian.

 

*

 

The lights in the hall flickered for a moment, and Kareen paused in mid-sentence, raising her head. She met Lord Vorkosigan’s gaze in the long mirror opposite, still bleary and bitter but slowly widening in astonishment. Then, even more oddly, the candles all guttered, as if a strong gust of wind had blown through the sealed and shielded room, and Kareen felt an icy-cold touch on her back. She closed her eyes with a shiver.

Suddenly she felt unbalanced, nauseous, and she swayed on her feet. She thrust out a hand but somehow failed to find the wall, and would have fallen but for an arm that suddenly came up to support her. Kareen’s head spun as she opened her eyes and looked up at, of all people, Padma Vorpatril.

Vorpatril returned her gaze with an expression that could only be described as exasperated. “Damn you, Aral, how many glasses did you have while I was away?”

 _Aral?_ Kareen tried to stand up straight, but her legs gave way and she ended up leaning on Vorpatril again. For some reason she felt a strange fondness for the man looking down at her – but even stranger, the fondness was quickly overwhelmed by grief and guilt. And it was not only that. She couldn’t explain the sudden surge of pain, self-loathing, and an overwhelming desire to just… not be here. To not be at all. Such feelings were not unfamiliar to her, but these were newly bitter instead of the old aches she had come to know.

Lord Vorpatril only made a frustrated sound and shoved her into a chair so unceremoniously that Kareen stared. “I’ll fetch you some more painkillers,” he said. “Stay right here and try not to make another scene.”

 _What?_  Kareen’s thoughts were strangely sluggish. She stared at Vorpatril’s retreating back, then down at the empty glass in her hand, which she couldn’t remember picking up –

\-- only it was not her hand.

Kareen jerked her head up; it was Vorkosigan’s face that stared back at her from the mirrored wall, eyes wide and bewildered.

She went very still, and in the mirror, Vorkosigan’s hard, scarred face froze in return.

 

*

 

Aral had had his well-deserved share of drunken hallucinations over the last few weeks, but he was sure those had all been blurred and confused, not so painfully vivid. And his hallucinations invariably involved blood and plasma fire, bloated bodies floating in vacuum, or perhaps in his occasional better moments, a familiar red-haired figure looking at him with kind eyes. There was no reason why he should hallucinate standing in a corner holding hands with Vidal Vordarian.   
  
And there was most especially no reason why he should hallucinate Vordarian whispering into his ear in that particular soft, husky tone.  
  
“Of course I understand,” Vordarian was murmuring. “You need have no fear if I should succeed. But –“ he drew away to Aral’s profound relief – “tell me, is there any truth to the rumors? What of Vorkosigan?”  
  
_What?_  Aral was about to reply, but checked himself. Something was wrong beyond Vordarian’s obvious presence. He was sure he hadn’t been in this corner a moment ago. And he hadn’t been this afraid a moment ago. That was confusing. Nothing that he cared about remained to him; what could he fear? 

Vordarian was suddenly looking at him with a solicitous expression that Aral had never seen on his face. “Are you all right, my lady?”

A dozen questions danced in Aral’s strangely sober head, but one jumped head and shoulders over the rest. “What do you mean, my  _lady_?” 

Vordarian looked momentarily nonplussed. Then his smug smile returned. “Ah, Kareen, forgive me. I have tired you with all these questions. Can I fetch you anything? Shall I escort you to your rooms?”

The first thought that crossed Aral's mind was  _Absolutely not_. The second was  _Wait, Kareen?_

He looked over Vordarian’s shoulder, into the mirror. Blinked. Stared again. Slowly, his eyes wandered down to the black gown that covered his – no, definitely  _not_  his body. He raised a hand, touching the silken fabric with slim, pale fingers. 

“Wine,” he said weakly. “I could use some wine.”

Vordarian bowed. “At once… Kareen. And then, if you feel better, we will talk further.”

Vordarian made his way to the drinks table, and Aral was left staring across the room at a familiar face, every bit as horrified as his own.

 

*

 

Kareen sat in the corner, not able to move, not wanting to move. Was it always like this for Vorkosigan? This bleak, pain-filled depression, this absence of will? That whispered story of the lightflyer crash now seemed much more believable.

 _Drou,_  she thought,  _I need Drou._ She couldn’t trust anyone with this, couldn’t risk creating a scene here and now. She watched Vorkosigan in her body on the other side of the room, draining a glass of wine with shocking speed as Count Vordarian spoke intently beside him. Her lips curled. No, that was not the place to look for help, as Vorkosigan himself had made abundantly clear. But Drou had gone off-duty once the reception had started. Who else could she trust?

No time to think. A man in uniform was crossing the floor, clearly heading for her. Alys hovered a step behind him, wearing a worried expression. It seemed Alys had been distracting people while Padma steadied Vorkosigan. 

“Aral,” she said, her look speaking volumes. “Admiral Couer wants to speak to you.”

Kareen’s mind raced, or more accurately, lurched to its feet. Admiral Couer, yes. He was in command of the First Fleet now, or whatever was left of it. Yet he had not spoken at the funeral.

Couer was standing at attention, his eyes taking in the empty glass - and the other empty glasses that Kareen now noticed beside her seat - but with dismay and concern, not revulsion. “Admiral,” he said softly. 

The flood of self-loathing at that word was so strong that Kareen had to restrain her fists from clenching. “I know you’d asked not to be disturbed, but the men wanted me to tell you how much they appreciated your speech. Thank you, sir."

Kareen tried to come up with something Vorkosigan would be likely to say that was not entirely appalling. “I’m not an Admiral,” she managed. “I resigned my commission.”

Couer straightened even more. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “but you’ll always be an Admiral for the men who served under you, sir. The truth is that you were the real Admiral on the flagship, not that…” Couer broke off. “Sorry, sir.”

Kareen paused. Couer’s respect was obvious – and interesting. Padma and Alys were family, but Vorkosigan must have done much to inspire such loyalty and concern among his men. And Couer was reputed to be an honorable man, not the kind of soldier who had followed in Ges Vorrutyer’s footsteps.

Clearly Vorkosigan had not always been a drunkard who fled from his duty. But that was a matter to consider later. What now?

Well, she was pretending to be Vorkosigan, after all. She must say what Vorkosigan would say. “The Prince, you mean?”

Couer blinked. “I… yes, sir.”

Kareen leaned forward and tried to imitate Vorkosigan’s low growl. “You mean that useless, spoiled, spiteful, incompetent fool of a commander who got two-thirds of our men killed for nothing? Who turned the Imperial Fleet into a playground for his sadistic bedroom games? Who wanted to cluster-bomb an inhabited planet into submission? Who - ”

Couer was rapidly acquiring the expression of a stuffed fish. Kareen had never felt so free in her life. She smiled coldly. “Dismissed, Couer.”

Couer spluttered, saluted and departed. Kareen smiled again. That had felt surprisingly good. Far better than playing the grieving widow. And now it was unlikely that any more soldiers would approach Vorkosigan.

Alys looked torn between indignation and terror. “Aral, is everything all right? Shall I get Padma?”

“No,” Kareen said. The words came out in an automatic tone – sharp, commanding, even if slightly unsteady, and Alys stopped. 

She had to seek help from someone, and Alys was her best chance. “Alys, you’re not going to believe this… but I’m not Aral. I’m Kareen.”

Alys’s mouth opened in silent dismay. She looked around hastily in the direction Padma had gone.

“The night before my wedding,” Kareen whispered, “you climbed into my window to tell me what you’d heard the servants whisper about Serg. You offered to help me run away. You –”

Alys’s eyes widened. “I know because I was there,” Kareen said. “Help me now, Alys.”

Alys stared at her, thinking. “This is impossible,” she said. “Unbelievable, but… when I was a child, my sister once told me there was a ghost in the Hall of Mirrors, the ghost of a sorcerer, and sometimes he would play tricks on people. Like this." 

Kareen felt in no mood to appreciate humor at the moment. "And were the people eventually restored to their own bodies?" This reception was important, and she needed to be with the right people, needed to say the right things. Vorkosigan was the last person on the planet she could trust to deputize for her.

"At the stroke of midnight." Alys looked at her chrono, then abruptly looked up, her face paling. “Wait. If you are here in Aral’s body, then does that mean…”

Kareen nodded.

 

*

 

“My only concern is Vorkosigan,” Vordarian was saying. “He may say he has no interest in politics, but how can we trust him?”

Aral was thinking more clearly than he had in a long time. It was not a pleasant experience. Clearly Vordarian was warming to the role of champion. But it was interesting that the fear in the back of his head did not seem to abate in Vordarian’s presence. Princess Kareen might be courting Vordarian, but that didn’t mean she trusted him.

“Look around you,” he said. “If Vorkosigan wanted to be Regent, he’d be making a play for it, building his support. Instead he’s crawling into a corner getting disgustingly drunk. He doesn’t want it.” 

“Well, if you are quite certain,” Vordarian said doubtfully. “But Vortala and his circus ring would support Vorkosigan over me in a heartbeat, never mind that the man is a drunkard and – and far worse, forgive me.” His dark eyes narrowed in dislike. “The man is in every way a disgrace. I fail to understand how Ezar can favor him. He would be an embarrassment to Barrayar as Regent.” 

Aral looked down at his empty wineglass. “I absolutely agree.”

Vordarian blinked. “You do? I thought you were like the rest of them - taken in by his so-called heroic retreat.”

“I assure you,” Aral said with perfect honesty, “you have no idea how pleased I am to finally hear someone who doesn’t think Aral Vorkosigan is a hero.”

“Indeed?” Vordarian’s eyes gleamed and he leaned closer. “I had not meant to trouble you, but if you feel so strongly… I think it possible that Lord Vorkosigan’s heavy drinking may result in serious medical complications.” He gestured at a knot of Ops officers beside one of the painted windows. “There are many in the military who agree with me that Vorkosigan’s politics are… well, precisely what one would expect from a man of his morality.”

 _Interesting._  Aral scrutinized the group. There were at least ten senior officers there, some he didn’t know, but General Timms was one of them. There had been whispers of Timms being too close to Grishnov, too willing to look aside where the Ministry of Political Education was concerned. If the Ministry’s supporters were banding together behind Vordarian, Ezar’s purge hadn’t been as effective as he’d thought.

This was none of Aral’s concern any more. He wanted nothing more than to leave politics far behind him, preferably in cold vacuum without a spacesuit. And yet…

“And where does Padma Vorpatril fit into this plan of yours?” he asked innocently. 

Vordarian’s forehead creased in thought. “You are right, of course. Vorpatril is too loyal to Vorkosigan. And his son…” he nodded sternly. “I must give it some thought.”

 _Damn you._  Aral had half-risen from his seat when he felt a touch on his shoulder. Vordarian fell silent, glowering at Alys. 

“Ezar wants to talk to you, Kareen,” she said, and before Aral could react she was leading him away. Vordarian made way before the Imperial command, but not before he had captured Aral’s hand and pressed a kiss to it. Aral surreptitiously wiped it on the dress.

“Aral, are you all right?” Alys whispered as soon as they were out of earshot. 

Alys knew. How could Alys know? But then he saw himself approaching from the corner, just slightly unsteady on his feet, glaring at people who didn’t move out of the way. Princess Kareen was clearly a practiced actress.

“Act tired,” she murmured. “Go up the stairs behind the curtain. I will join you later – we can’t be seen leaving together. Alys believes this effect will reverse itself at midnight.”

Aral nodded. Already he could see heads turning in their direction. “Are you all right, my lady?” 

She smiled. “I’ve played much harder roles than this, Lord Vorkosigan.”

 

_*_

 

It wasn’t that easy. Aral forced himself to smile and exchange pleasantries with more guests - Princess Kareen was famous for her impeccable grace and courtesy, and he had no right to ruin that reputation whatever he might wish to say.

At last he made the right apologies and disappeared up the stairs. He wasn’t entirely sure where the Princess’s rooms were, but he let her body take over, tracing familiar steps until he stopped outside a door. 

He felt his muscles relax as soon as he closed the door behind him, like coiled springs released from beneath an immense weight. He looked around. It was a spacious suite, elegantly decorated in blues and yellows. There was a door in the corner, more colorful than the rest, and he found himself taking a step toward it before he quite knew what he was doing. 

Aral paused. His body seemed to insist on going into that room, as if it would be restless without doing so. 

He opened the door. A soft light came on, and Aral saw a large chamber with a bed in the far corner, toys scattered around the floor, stars and planets glowing on the walls and roof. He would have closed the door instantly if one of the blankets had not sat up and exclaimed, ‘Mama!’ in a small but delighted voice, falling back to reveal an instantly familiar boy.

Aral stilled. To play Princess Kareen for a political audience was one thing. To do the same before her son was quite another. He took a cautious step into the room. “Shouldn’t you be asleep at this time?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Gregor’s face widened into a smile. “Bedtime story, mama? Please?”

Aral swallowed. _He looks so much like his father._ He’d hoped - no, not hoped, prayed that he would never have to meet this boy. But now that he had, he didn’t want to disappoint him. 

It was much easier to just sit down and read the story. 

 

*

 

Kareen escaped from the reception without great difficulty, for after a few more uses of her strategy the whole room was falling over itself to avoid her. She walked out onto the moonlit balcony and leaned on the railing, resting her head on her arms while she took long, deep breaths to clear her head.

After a while she realized that Commander Illyan had trailed after her. Interesting – she felt no tension, no worry at being alone with the ImpSec officer. On the contrary, Vorkosigan’s body seemed to relax in Illyan’s presence, accepting it with blatant relief.

“My lord?” Illyan murmured. 

“Yes, Commander?” Illyan’s eyes looked hurt for an instant, and Kareen realized that Illyan was the first soldier all evening who hadn’t called Vorkosigan  _Admiral_.

“Simon,” she corrected, wondering at the informality. “Simon. What’s wrong?”

“My lord, are you so certain you won’t consider the Regency?”

Kareen realized with a jolt that there were no recording devices on this balcony, something Illyan certainly knew. What was this? Was there a faction in ImpSec that supported Vorkosigan? 

She tried to replicate Vorkosigan’s glower. “Do I look like a Regent to you, Simon?”

“Yes,” Illyan said. “You’re disgustingly drunk and you've been acting like a suicidal idiot all evening – but yes, my lord, you’re the only man in this room who looks like the Regent. The only man in this room who could be Regent and not lead this planet into hell.”

Kareen’s eyes widened. This was no flattery, no political ploy; there had been naked sincerity in those words. “Simon,” she whispered, wondering at the suddenly gentle tone Vorkosigan’s voice fell into. “I’m already in hell, can’t you see?”

Illyan took a step forward. “Then I’ll follow you there without question. But you could lead us to so many better places.” 

He raised his head. “You’re done with serving him. I know, my lord. But just because Ezar dragged you down to hell with him doesn’t mean you have to stay there forever.”

This time it wasn’t drink that made Kareen sway on her feet.

  
*

  
“Go back to sleep, now,” Aral whispered, tucking the boy back under his dinosaur-patterned blankets. But Gregor’s eyes were already tightly shut.

Aral sat and watched the sleeping child, and found his mind drifting into unfamiliar patterns of thought. Serg had been a vicious, spoiled brat since he could walk. Gregor Vorbarra was, thank all the gods, a nice boy. His mother’s son, from what little Aral had seen. Not his father’s.

He should leave. He really should. But this body – this mind – felt an overwhelming need to stay right where it was, to protect this boy against any and all possible danger. Aral hadn’t felt such determination, such single-minded focus, since… since before Escobar. He didn’t know how to deal with it.

No wonder his mother was afraid, if Vordarian was the only protector this boy would have in a few weeks’ time.

Aral’s career was over, his service was over. He had sworn that he would never serve again, and indeed he would rather die than serve Ezar Vorbarra another day of his life. But to serve a child; a child too young and innocent for Ezar’s deceptions… 

That might, perhaps, be a different matter.

 

*

 

Kareen arrived in the suite barely a minute before midnight. The first thing she saw on entering Gregor’s room was herself – no, Vorkosigan, sitting in her accustomed place by the bed, with  _Lord Vorthalia and the Horned Beast of Fell Forest_  open across his knees and Gregor’s small fingers curled in his hands. 

Vorkosigan’s eyes flew open just as the clock struck midnight.

 

*

 

The transition from a sharp, sober brain to one virtually floating on alcohol was like being attacked by a dozen or so of the fire-breathing unicorns from Gregor’s picture book. Aral’s head spun, but Kareen was prepared, catching his elbow and steering him into an armchair.

“Sit down, Lord Vorkosigan,” she said, firmly and quite unnecessarily.

Aral obeyed for a few moments before he realized where he was. “Thank you, my lady, but... I’d better be going.” He took a deep breath and got to his feet without needing to hold on to anything. “I apologize for…” he waved his hand. “… all this.”

“Stay,” she said, in a commanding tone that he was certain wasn’t her own. “Commander Illyan has let slip some interesting things tonight. It would seem that I owe you my deepest gratitude.”

Aral tensed. “If that is so, milady,” he said, “then you’re the only one.”

Princess Kareen looked down at her hands and then, deliberately, back at him. “After the first month of my marriage,” she said, softly but clearly, “I went to Ezar – no, I ran to Ezar. I told him what was happening to me – I wept, begged him to release me, offered to tell any lie, accept any disgrace. I threatened to kill myself if he did not do so.”

Aral stared at her. He had felt the fear, the reserve that bound her – he knew perfectly well how difficult it was for her to admit that to someone who was almost a stranger.

Of course, it was quite ridiculous to consider themselves strangers to each other now.

“I was prepared for threats or bribery, but Ezar used my oath to compel me. He… reminded me of my duty. So you see, Lord Vorkosigan, I understand the inside of your head better than you think.”

“The difference,” said Aral in a low voice, “is that you didn’t watch your friends die. You didn't sit there watching them go, knowing that you could save them, and choosing otherwise.”

“No. I only turned them away one by one, for their own safety. If I killed anyone it was only myself. It is easier, I admit.” She shook her head. “The  _real_  difference is that I did not retreat from my duties and drink myself to death while lashing out at what few friends remained to me for trying to help. Look in your pocket.”

Aral put his hand in his pocket and drew out a packet of sealed data discs. “What’s this?” 

“Admiral Couer wanted your input on the new fleet reconstruction program," she said calmly. "He seems quite at a loss to handle it. I promised to look into it. I’ve also promised your attendance at the General Staff conference next week. As several of the Counts and Ministers will be present, I am certain you’ll be well-prepared, Lord Vorkosigan. And sober.”

Aral stared down at the packet. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten you much deeper into Vordarian’s plots than you probably wanted to be,” he said at last. “He is… not what you thought he was.”

“I thought,” Kareen said, slowly and deliberately, “that Vidal Vordarian, whatever else he might be, was the only viable alternative left to me. Was I wrong?”

 

*

 

Captain Negri came across the sickroom to stand in parade rest beside the bed, hands folded together behind his back. He coughed softly. “I hear Lord Vorkosigan has stopped drinking.” 

Ezar looked up from the bed. His only comment was a pained grunt. “And the Princess?”

“Has been refusing to answer Count Vordarian’s messages for the last week.”

“Ha.” Ezar let out a faint laugh. “Very well. It’s time to make our offer. Tell Vortala to get Vorkosigan over here.” He waved a hand at the small golden mirror sitting beside his bed. “And take this away. Do you think I _want_ to look at myself?”

Negri bowed, picked up the mirror and left the room. Behind him, Ezar’s bloodless lips curled into a familiar smile of triumph. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> And now I have this cracky wish for someone to write Vordarian/Aral unrequited love. Please?


End file.
